Illegal Aliens
by makealist
Summary: James and Juliet stay on the sub, and face their first Christmas in the "real world," which has its own adjustment period. Secret Santa for tia8206
1. Chapter 1

**We are SNOWED IN. With a lot of people in the house. At least I have the excuse of an "assignment to work on" as a late-afternoon escape to a quiet room.**

**I can only escape for so long, so I'll just put up the first part of this. Expect two more to follow.**

**This is my Secret Santa: "****James and Juliet stay on the sub, and face their first Christmas in the "real world," which has its own adjustment period" for tia8206 (hey, no pressure, she's only my favorite author on here!)**

**Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to tia and everybody!**

December 23, 1977

James pulls into the diner parking lot and cuts the ignition. He should keep the car running, just for the heat, but that would be a waste of gas, and it's not like they can afford to be wasteful. He blows on his hands, sits on them, waits. He should just run into the diner, but it's pouring rain, so he stays in the car.

Rain. It's fucking Michigan in December. If the weather's gonna be shitty, shouldn't it be snow? But no, it's in the high 30s, a nice little "warm spell," so it's just this crappy cold rain, and he hates it.

While he waits he pulls the necklace out of his coat pocket. It's really pretty. She'll say it's beautiful, and she won't be lying, but it's also cheap. So cheap, he's pretty sure she won't be able to wear it more than a few times before it leaves a ring of green around her neck. But, hell, what can they afford?

_We'll buy Microsoft. Then we'll bet the Cowboys in the '78 Super Bowl. We're gonna be rich._

God, how fucking naïve. You gotta have money to place bets, doncha? So you gotta get a job, and hey, guess what? You just got kicked out of the Dharma Initiative, and it ain't like you can call back to your _last_ place of employment 'cause guess what? It don't exist. Plus, that Dharma Initiative thing? It's your only real job – ever – so there's that. Not that it helps much if you've had plenty of real jobs and all sorts of qualifications. Not like Juliet can just go waltzing up to the hospital and say "Yes, I just got kicked out of the Dharma Initiative where I was a mechanic, but I'd like to practice medicine here. Show you my degree? Oh, can you wait about 18 years?"

He had a crappy dishwashing job for a while, but they sacked him when he bet them all that Reggie Jackson would hit three home runs in one game in the World Series. He made about $2,000 from the cooks, and waiters, and line manager, then got booted right from that job. Most of that money went to buying this piece of shit Chevy Nova. He spent a little more on the crappy (but beautiful!) necklace.

And yeah, sure, maybe they should invest some of that money. Put a little down on Microsoft, just like he said. Hardee har har. Guess what you need to invest money? A broker. And it ain't like e-trade or any of that Internet shit exists. Yeah, you gotta get a broker, and, funny thing, those guys prefer you have a bank account. Oh, what's that? You gotta have a social security number to get a bank account? And you gotta have a birth certificate to get a social security number? Well, guess who does't have any of that shit? Time travelers, that's who.

They were so giddy and so goddamn fucking relieved when Juliet got the job in the diner back in August. She got her first (measly) paycheck, and here they go! They are gonna open an account, and start socking away the money (not much, but it'll grow), and everything's just gonna be groovy.

Until, Mr. Uptight Prick Bank Manager calls her in to the local branch to say "there are some concerns with the paperwork."

And they are? Turns out, her social security number is that of a six-year-old girl in Florida. "Probably just a typo on your part," says the manager.

"Yes, probably," says Juliet, gathering up the paperwork and backing politely out the door.

And it's 19 effing 77, and who would've guessed they were so het up about identity theft back then? Or now or whatever. They really checked that stuff back then/now? It had taken them one month in the "real world" for them to realize they needed to play it cool. They don't actually exist. No licenses, no paperwork, no nothing. And if they get caught, what the hell are they supposed to say? So, they keep their heads down.

After he lost his busboy job, James looked around a little bit, to no avail. Besides, they realize now that the only way they're going to make any money is betting. And they've wised up enough to know that James can't keep betting with the same bookies here in Lansing. They'll stop taking James' bets as soon as they catch on that he never loses. So, he's been scouting out bookies throughout the upper Midwest. He's going to bet the Yankees to repeat in '78, and he wants to place the bet as soon as spring training opens up. There's bound to be some money there, if he can find a bookie to take the action.

The real money's in Vegas, but hey? Guess what you need to get to Vegas? More money than they have, that's what.

He can't believe how fucking difficult it is. In their crap apartment in their shit car in this shit town with its crap weather. It wasn't so difficult back in 'real time.' He didn't have much of a bank account then, did he? Didn't have credentials. Didn't have a resume. Didn't have jack shit, and yet he managed to make decent money.

He stares down at the cheap ass necklace (and who cares how pretty it actually is, it's a piece of crap) in his hands, and across the street to the gas station there. An idea is forming. Just run a few cons. That's the way to sock some away. What Juliet makes at the diner is barely enough to cover their rent and food. They can bet every sure thing and win every long odd from here till 2004, but it ain't gonna amount to much if they're only putting down $25 a pop. Run a few cons, and then he'll have some real dough to lay on the Cowboys come Super Bowl time . . .

The diner door bursts open and here comes Juliet, dashing through the rain, opening the passenger side door, and darting in.

He starts the car up to turn on the heat, and starts backing out of the lot.

"Everything OK?" she asks. He usually leans over to kiss her, ask her about her shift. Tonight, his mood is too foul, and it's supposed to be Christmas, it is nearly Christmas, and here he is with nothing but cheap jewelry to give her. They're up on the main road now, heading to their place on the wrong side of the tracks.

"I was thinkin' of maybe running the necklace con. Just a few times. Give us enough to put some real money down on the Super Bowl."

"James, no."

"Look, we need more money, and might as well let one of us actually do something we're good at."

She thinks, "You don't need to do that. My tips are really getting better."

He's angry at the world, and itching for a fight. "Yeah, because you're the world's greatest waitress, right?"

"You think I'm not good at my job? I got more tips than anybody tonight."

"Through your _fabulous_ waitressing skills," he scoffs.

"What is that even supposed to mean?" she asks.

"I mean, try buttoning that uniform shirt all the way to the top, and then see how many tips roll in. "

They're at their apartment complex now, and she gets out, slamming the door shut. The rain is cold and ceaseless. "Well, pardon me for trying to earn us a little extra money," she shouts.

"I don't see how me runnin' a con is any worse than you flashing your tits around for cash!" He's shouting now, too.

"Oh go to hell, James."

"I ain't there already?"

She smacks him then, hard, and he's about to grab her wrist, when blue lights flash, and sirens blare with a short, truncated, 'wooop.' Always cops patrolling around here.

"Everything OK, here?" the officer asks.

"Fine, thank you," says Juliet.

"Sir?" the officer looks to James.

"Just mind your busin…"

Juliet cuts him off with a low, warning, "James."

Yeah, they can't get hauled in to the cops. They have no paperwork. They don't exist.

So the officer pulls out of the lot, and they trudge in to their apartment in silence.

Juliet heads for the shower without a word. She's in there a long while, and he knows this is her escape.

He waits, leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom door. When she exits the bathroom, she glares at him before he gets a chance to raise his hands in apology. "I lived in a trailer park most of my childhood. . ."

"Well, I didn't," she says, still very angry.

"That's actually kinda my point," he says. "Look, when we were in Dharmaville, God, I thought it was great. I just felt like me and you . . . it was like bein' with you made me a better man…" he trails off, rolls his eyes. True, but this ain't a Hallmark card, and that sounds like a bunch of syrupy nonsense. "What I mean is, all my life I can feel the trailer park on me, no matter how nice I dress, no matter how much money I have. But back in Dharmaville, it's like you washed the trailer park offa me. And now. . ." He runs his fingers through his hair. "It seems like half the women in that trailer park used their tits for money one way or another, and it's like we're here now, and the trailer park hasn't washed off at all. It's like I got trailer park on you, and it breaks my heart."

She's been softening toward him throughout his little dialogue, and she steps toward him now to hug him. "Just because we're poor doesn't mean we have to be trashy," she murmurs into his neck.

"Yeah, well, didn't we just have a fight the cops had to break up? I know you're new at this, but, trust me, that is total trailer park."

"I can quit the diner job," she says. "I'm sure I can find something."

"You don't gotta quit, but maybe just button up."

She laughs. "Fine. But I'm a horrible waitress, so expect our income, such as it is, to plummet."

He pulls a box from behind his back. "Early Christmas gift," he says.

She opens it. "It's beautiful, James."

He helps her put the necklace on. "I wouldn't wear that too much at one time," he says. "It's uh. . . kinda cheap."

**PART 2 WILL BE A BIT MORE CHRISTMASY.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm not doing a whole lot of editing/polishing of these Secret Santa bits, so I apologize for any mistakes up front. One more piece to go after this one. Or two, if I decide to split it.**

**December 24, 1977**

When Juliet wakes, the light is so bright. For a moment, she panics, fearing she's overslept and will be late for her shift. She remembers, though, that she's off today. A relief. She's a bad waitress, but at least she always shows up on time for her shifts. She hates the job. Not that it's beneath her. She could care less about that.

James has in his mind a whole hierarchy of jobs and is keenly aware of what's up and down the rung. Doctor, lawyer, engineer at the top; cop, teacher, bank teller in the middle; janitor, cashier, dishwasher at the bottom. No wonder he thrived with Dharma. All of them with their jobs based on "aptitude," slotted so neatly and spelled out on their uniforms. Perfect!

She wonders where he places waitress on the list. If it bothered her to think something was "beneath" her, she wouldn't have been a mechanic for three years. She doesn't care. What she hates about being a waitress is that she's so bad at it. She doesn't like feeling incompetent. About six weeks ago, she raked in a ton of tips, and bounced out to James in the car feeling like maybe she'd finally gotten the hang of it. They were on their way in to the apartment when he remarked, "Mmmmmm hmmmm," and pointed out that her top two buttons were undone. Well, she might never get the hang of waitressing, but she can put two and two together. . . and they needed the money. She never guessed that it would bother James.

She sits up, and she's tired and sore. They were up until nearly dawn making love. Ha. Who the hell is she kidding? They were fucking. God, they were so angry. Not at each other. She feels like they got that talked out. But, God, just angry. . . angry at the isolation, angry at being so poor, angry that there's no one else where they are/_**when **_they are, angry that they can live in the past but not change it, angry that they can see family again, but only from a distance. Just . . . ANGRY. And there's no one else to take it out on, no one else to complain to.

She notes bruising on her upper arms, and is it wrong that even in the bright light of morning it's kind of a turn on how intense everything was last night? James stirs now, and gets out of bed, and she notes the scratch marks on his back with equal parts satisfaction and chagrin.

This – last night - can't be healthy, she thinks. Then again, what's not healthy isn't last night. What's not healthy is pretending everything will be OK, ignoring the loneliness and the poverty until it all backs up and the only way you can really express yourself is through . . . well . . . she raises a palm to her forehead, embarrassed about some of last night's escapades.

James is back, with a hot cup of tea. He sits down on the edge of the bed, her side.

"Got colder during the night," he says. She doesn't catch his drift, so he reaches out to the window to shift the curtain (yes, the room is small enough to reach the window from the bed), and she sees a thick blanket of white snow (no wonder it's so bright in here). "White Christmas," he says.

He's sitting, and she curls around his backside, rests her chin on his thigh. He smoothes her hair with his free hand, drinks his tea with the other. It's so beautiful outside, and the moment is so tender, she wants to cry. Whatever happens, _**they'll **_be all right, she knows that. She kisses his knee, thankful yet again that if she had to be stuck somewhere, anywhere, anytime, she's stuck with him.

Once they finally are up and about, they head out for some time in the snow. Sounds are muffled, and things don't look nearly so dingy and cheap when they're coated in fresh, fluffy, white snow. They slide down the nearest hill on big pieces of cardboard. They have a snowball fight (this turns out to be fun, and a much, much more wholesome way to expend a little angry energy). Cold and wet, they get back to the apartment for lunch, soup from a can, spend the afternoon catching up on lost zzzzzzzzzzzzs. By late afternoon, it's already quite dark out.

They sip hot cocoa with Kahlua next to their tiny, patchy, Charlie Brown Christmas tree. She's got her sock feet in his lap, and maybe it was the total release of anger last night, maybe it was the refreshing, cleansing day in the snow, maybe it's the cocoa or the booze, but she feels as content as she's felt in a long while.

"So what's going on in Miami right now?" he asks.

She pretends to think, to try to remember. It's all an act. Once the decorations started going up at the diner, once Christmas began to descend upon them, it was almost all she could think about. Christmas is supposed to be for family . . .

"Well, my Grandma and Grandpa Carlson are visiting. They visit every Christmas until my parents' divorce. Since Rachel has the double bed, they're staying in her room, and Rachel's in my room. I'm sleeping on the floor."

"She's making you sleep on the floor of your own room?

"I was something of a pushover, once upon a time."

They sit for awhile in silence. Juliet begins to chuckle.

"What's so funny?" James asks.

"Well, next Christmas, or maybe the one after, I'm not quite sure, but when we're sharing a room, Rachel tells me about something pretty eye opening."

"What? That Santa's just made up?'

"Not that. She told me about . . ." dramatic pause, then in a loud whisper, "S-E-X."

"No!" James places his hands over his heart in mock horror. "What did she tell ya?"

"I remember it so perfectly. I believe her exact words were 'The guy puts it in you.' I tried to pretend for a little bit that that made sense, but curiosity got the best of me. So, I asked her 'Puts what where?' And when she told me?" Juliet sticks an index finger down her throat, pantomimes gagging. "I think it was the most grossed out I've ever been over something someone's told me . . . and I went to medical school!"

He's been chuckling during the whole story, and is now outright laughing, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He gets up to refill their glasses, more Kahlua now than cocoa, and they sit in peaceful silence for a while. She's feeling the booze now, a little addled, thoughts turning maudlin. She suddenly misses her family so much. It was easier on the Island, neither The Others or Dharma gave much thought to Christmas. Plus it wasn't winter. Here she wants grandparents and cousins and drunk uncles, and goofy Christmas sweaters, and excited kids, and her sister.

James is watching her intently, must be reading her mind, because he says, "Hey, it don't always gotta be this lonely."

"Yeah sure," she doesn't agree. She challenges, "What? You think we can just create a couple of people, make them our family, make them spend Christmas with us?"

He doesn't answer right away, but when he does he says, "I meant we'll probably make some friends. But I guess what you're suggesting . . . that could work, too."

She's really seriously lonely, and now he's making fun, and she wishes she could find it as funny as he does. She imagines their secret basement lair and their search for Brains . . . Brains. . . Brains. And she imagines a Frankenstein monster lurching around with the little bolts sticking out of his neck and everything. At Christmas he could wear an XL Christmas sweater. She imagines a goofy sweater with a red reindeer and red snowflakes and Frankenstein staggering around with his arms right out in front of him. OK, that gets her to laughing.

"What's so funny?" James asks. "I'm kinda halfway maybe serious."

"How? How in the world do you propose we go about creating these Christmas buddies?"

It's his turn to look at her like she's bonkers. "S-E-X," he finally says.

That makes no sense at all.

Oh! OH, she sees what he means, so she's sitting there with her mouth hanging open, what's she supposed to say to that, and she's really drunk anyway, and she was just imagining a square-headed, green-faced monster in a Christmas sweater, so just to clarify she says, "You mean, like have kids?"

"What the hell did you think I meant?"

"Like a Frankenstein or something."

He howls. He howls and laughs until he's out of breath. When he's finally on an even keel again, he refills their drinks, lurching and moaning like he's the monster. And, yeah, that was really a stupid assumption on her part. She's drunk, OK? What do you expect?

It's not Christmas-y, but their conversation turns to scary movies and monsters and scary books and things that scared them when they were kids and some haunted house one town over that Juliet heard about from someone at the diner. They listen to the weather report over their radio. More snow tomorrow, but they have nowhere to be.

They wish each other Merry Christmas when the clock turns to midnight. They lie in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. Neither one of them usually does a lot of lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Bed is for sleep, for sex, maybe for reading, but not for thinking. Thinking too hard can leave you grasping for answers that will never come. Better to turn the brain off and save yourself from a sleepless night.

"I been thinkin'" James says now, and see, that's dangerous. Don't think too much. Just live every day.

"Hmmmm?" she leads.

"Maybe it ain't a bad idea. Havin' a baby."

Well, it's a horrible idea. She thinks of her measly paycheck that barely covers food and rent. She imagines rumbling around the diner seven months pregnant. She imagines James carting a baby around to all the bookies in the tri-state area. Besides, she tells him, "Anytime anyone thinks having a baby is a good idea to help a relationship, make things better . . they are nearly always wrong."

"You think any of those people are time travelers?"

"Probably not."

"Think about it. With a baby you get a birth certificate. With a birth certificate you get a social security number. With a social security number you get a ..."

"Bank account," they say in unison.

Actually, that's not the world's worst idea. . . Wait, no. she feels that it can't actually be that simple. That plus . . . A child as bank account? That doesn't seem right.

"Besides," he says. "I kinda think it would be, I don't know, I mean, not easy or nothin', but it could be fun."

She levers up on an elbow to look him in the eye. "I can't decide if this is the best or worst idea I've ever heard."


	3. Chapter 3

**Typically when I write these things, I spend the most time going back through and polishing/cutting the fat. But, I'm anxious to post this, then get to writing (a much shorter) little PS to this. I sort of got caught up in this universe and kept adding more than I needed, but oh well, it's fun anyway. **

**December 23, 1978**

James pulls into the diner parking lot and cuts the ignition. The Nova sputters, coughs, and shudders into silence.

Holy crap, what a difference a year makes, he thinks, blindly grasping and reaching for the wrapped gift that's slipped under the seat. The Nova's really on its last legs, but they've thought that before, and it still gets them where they need to go – most of the time. It's just gotta make it through the end of January, when that money he put on the Steelers can get them a new car. Until then, gotta hope the Nova does its job. It's GOT TO.

He tucks the gift under his arm and dashes into the diner. It's cold as shit, but at least it's dry (and not that godawful miserable rain like last year). The bells on the inside of the door announce his arrival, but the place is mostly empty. The Phelans have owned the place for 15 years now, but this year is their most profitable ever, and they're closing early for a Christmas celebration.

There's only one table of customers left, a middle-aged couple with a bored teenaged son. Yvonne, Betsy, and Darlene, the waitresses on shift tonight, sit perched at the counter, on high alert, ready to serve that last table and shoo them out the door. Darlene bats her eyelashes James' way, waves at him suggestively.

Darlene – now, when James went on his trailer park rant this time last year, Darlene was exactly the type of woman he had in mind. God, that woman is trailer trash through and through. Grandma three times over at 43, way too much makeup, way too touchy-feely. And around James? Whooooo boy, it's bad. Thing is, though, Darlene's gotta be one of the nicest, sweetest women he's ever met. Back when Juliet started here, it was Darlene always swooping in to fix her jacked-up orders, placate the customer, smooth ruffled feathers. She's probably Juliet's best friend here, and yet she sees no problem whatsoever putting the moves on James any chance she gets.

It's actually a running joke now at home:

"Listen, mister, I'm a little busy right now, so if you're so horny, go see what Darlene's up to."

"I tell ya, woman, you know Darlene would have dinner waitin' on her man to get home."

James thinks it's probably no coincidence he drew Darlene's name for secret Santa. These last two weeks he and Juliet must've come up with hundreds of bawdy gifts he can give Darlene: sensual massage, afternoon quickie, striptease, and his favorite, when Juliet suggested he "Do that thing . . . you know what . . ."

"No. . ." he lead her on, he knew exactly what she was talking about, but it was fun, and she was blushing to her ears.

"You know. . . where you . . . you know . . ."

"You sayin' you want me to do that to you now?"

Ultimately – for Darlene – he settled on a Detroit Red Wings 1979 wall calendar. He slips the package from under his arm and places it on the counter.

He sees Juliet in a corner booth with Marjorie Phelan, co-owner. They're swimming in papers, and he can tell by Marjorie's overwhelmed look and Juliet's exasperated one that things aren't going well. Seeing him, Juliet raises a finger "one minute," she mouths, but it looks like they've got a ways to go.

James takes a seat at the counter next to Frank Phelan, Marjorie's husband and fellow diner co-owner. Frank's studying the sports page. He turns to James, "Who you got in the AFC East?" he asks. Everyone's caught on that James is something of a sports savant. Here's the thing, though: James doesn't have a fucking clue who's gonna win the AFC East. He can tell you every Super Bowl and World Series winner for the next 25 years, but individual conferences? No clue. And, as it turns out, this works in his favor. He's lost more than a few bets on these rinky dink lines – lost just enough that most bookies still take his money, and he racks up big scores on the big games.

James takes the newspaper from Frank. "Not sure. I feel good about the Steelers in the Central, though." Frank's a good guy, a betting tip here, a stock tip there, just to pay the guy back for giving Juliet a job.

Frank glances over to Juliet and Marjorie in the corner. "I don't know James," he's uneasy.

"Y'all ran this place for 15 years, I think you'll be fine for a few months."

"I guess," Frank doesn't sound so sure.

God, what a difference a year makes, James thinks, looking around the diner at all these people who can legitimately be called friends. This was what he knew they'd get. They wouldn't be alone forever. And who cares if the diner folks don't know the real truth. The Dharma people didn't, either.

* * *

Last Christmas was kind of a downer. Crappy weather, isolation, poverty, you name it. January didn't start off much better. The Nova shit the bed 10 days into 1978, and it took a month of tips to save enough money to get it fixed. The diner is only a mile from their apartment, so he walked Juliet to and from work every day. He tried once to stay at the diner for her shift (Frank and Marjorie are decent that way), but he saw Juliet fuck up some order, saw some prick in a suit start to get pissy with her, and James came thisclose to serving the guy a knuckle sandwich right then and there. "OF COURSE SHE FUCKED UP YOUR ORDER, YOU MORON, SHE'S A GODDAMN DOCTOR NOT SOME CHEAP ASS DINER WAITRESS." Or, that's probably what he would've said if he hadn't gotten the "James," warning as she walked past him and back to the kitchen to get the order right. He stayed home after that.

Toward the end of the month, she was stuck at the diner past her shift, because he hadn't come to get her yet. He wasn't keen on her walking through that bad part of town alone. And, yes, this was a whole series of fights about who saved whose ass when and who really needed protection and blah blah blah blah. But it's not like he had anything else to do but walk her to and from work, so dammit, he was gonna do it.

So, she's there late, some vendor comes in to deliver oyster crackers or some shit like that. The place is slammed with customers, Marjorie asks Juliet to take care of the delivery. She does, looking closely at the bill of sale, and just like that, saves the diner a couple hundred bucks. Turns out the vendor's been jacking them up pretty good, could've been caught years ago – if anyone bothered to check. Turns out, Marjorie and Frank may be top-shelf cooks, may know everyone worth knowing in town, but are shit for businesspeople.

Juliet takes a look at their books. Turns out, Juliet's got a good head for numbers (surprise, surprise), and starts pointing out all sorts of ways they can save money. She starts dealing with the vendors, calculating receipts, keeping the books. By the end of February, she's only taking waitress shifts when someone's in a bind. Otherwise, it's all accounting all the time. The money's a little better, and even if they have to keep it in a safe in the closet, at least it's there. Juliet's in a much better mood, and this is probably when things really started to take off.

In March, James takes the Nova through Detroit, Cleveland, and Buffalo, placing bets on the Yankees to repeat in the Series. And he's gotta give it to the Nova, it makes it through. And, well, he's gotta give it (not _it_, not _that_ way) to Darlene for being Juliet's carpool for the 10 days he's gone.

And then there's late March/early April when Juliet's knee-deep in paperwork. Tax time! And guess who's doing the diner's taxes? Guess who comes home with books like _So, You Want to be a Certified Public Accountant_ and _Small Business Taxes Made Easy_? And, God, it is such a freakin' turn-on. She's got this light in her eyes, and she's engaged and excited and challenged by the work, and holy hell, it's totally hot.

He makes the mistake of saying this (or part of this, probably not the important part) and is met with a perturbed stare. "Taxes turn you on? James, I've done some kinky stuff with you, but taxes? Really?" and she holds up an adding machine, spooling white paper out the side, and, it ain't the taxes, sweetheart, it's you doin' the taxes. She's got her hair knotted loosely with a pencil, another pencil stuck behind an ear. He steps behind her, removes the pencil holding up the hair in back. He hair falls around her shoulders, and now we're talkin' . . .

"James, I don't have time. These have to be done by the 15th."

This is kind of torture, because really she's up late every night, totally preoccupied with this newfound profession, which meanwhile punches all James's buttons, and damn, sweet torture. She gets them done and off to the IRS on the 14th, deductions and loopholes and codicils and subsections and who knows what the fuck, but the diner's gonna be getting back a pretty penny.

And tax day itself? Oh, sweet release. The Phelans tell her don't come in, take some time off, thanks for a job well done, and enjoy the next few days.

And, oh yeah, they make up for lost time. Yes, James makes her wear his glasses and play Dirty Accountant, because that's what he's been fantasizing about for the past month.

Breathless and seductive: "Mr. Ford, I'd like for you to take a look at my W-2s. . . wait, what? Are you kidding me? This is absurd."

"Ah ah ah . . . " he wags an index finger at her. "You've spent the past month sayin' you're gonna make it up to me, so this is how it starts. Now show me them W-2s."

Eyeroll. Heavy sigh, but once she gets in the spirit, Dirty Accountant is FUN. The whole damn tax day is fun, and if this is the reward for tax day every year, then sign him up!

Except, and the absurdity isn't lost on him, what tax day ultimately entitles him to is a bank account, because in late May she tells him she's pregnant. The baby is due on January 15, and it doesn't take a CPA to figure out the math on that one.

So his job for the summer is to find a bank that will open an account for a minor without an existing parental account. This turns out to be more of a challenge than he'd counted on, and he's starting to sweat this. Driving the Nova all over the state, handy jug of water in the front seat for inevitable overheats. Meeting with people, it's a lot of goddamn work. Why can't they just invent the Internet and cell phones already? If he can't find a place to start an account, Juliet has some scheme she's cooked up with diner accounts, and that worries him, too, because she just can't lose this job, especially not now, and why hadn't they thought this through all the way? That stupid Dirty Accountant fling. Shouldn't the Dirty Accountant have warned him about this? About all of it?

Finally, he finds a bank that will set up the account. Now all he needs is a social security number, and they're golden. He has everything ready to go. SSN request form, bank account form, it's all right there. He is so ready for this. Ready for the bank account, that is.

One day in early September, Darlene stops by with a box of baby clothes her grandkids have outgrown. Of course, she conveniently stops by when James is home alone, shirtless (the a/c's busted again), and she gives him a nice, lingering pat on the biceps when she turns to leave. _You realize, I got a girlfriend, right? It's kinda why you're bringing these clothes by. _But he just smiles real nice at her, and off she goes.

He opens the box and begins folding. He's got a pile of girl clothes, one of boy clothes, one that can go either way, and this is nice and mindless. He's got a ton of things on his mind. Like once they get the account, how much money should they invest right away? How much should they leave aside for betting? Pirates are gonna win the Series next year, and he'll want to bet on that straight off. Maybe this year's Series winnings can get him to Vegas to bet next season's. He's also gotta figure out their investments, because Juliet keeps saying they need to "diversify," i.e., not put everything in Microsoft. Damn, there is just so much to think about.

He's mostly done with his folding when he gets to a set of corduroy blue overalls with puppies stitched on them. He just stops. Right there with the piles of clothes and the damn heat and the busted a/c and the boxes from Darlene's that smell like so much smoke. Time just stops. He doesn't know if he's sitting there 15 minutes or 2 hours when the apartment door opens, and Juliet comes in.

"I'm home!" she shouts, which is supposed to be a joke, the apartment's so damn small it ain't like anyone needs to announce when they enter.

He's supposed to call out, "I'm in here, sweetheart!" 'cause that's the other side of the joke, but he just sits.

She's in the kitchen, setting down a stack of manila folders and this he knows is some paperwork reorganization project she's got going on down at the diner. She looks over to him, concerned he didn't hold up his end of the "Our Apartment's Fucking Small" joke. Sees him there in the piles of clothes and remarks, "Darlene said she was dropping the clothes by. Don't fold them up yet, we'll have to wash them."

He doesn't really move. He's just kinda stuck like this, and has been for . . . well, like he said, no clue how much time has passed. She's in the kitchen, rinsing off an apple, biting in . . . "You OK?" she asks.

He kind of feels like someone finally punched the "unpause" button. He holds up the overalls. "This is really, really cute don't you think?"

"Mmm hmm." She agrees, but she's still concerned.

"I . . ." he starts. "This is real, isn't it?"

She shakes her head, not making the connection.

"I've only been thinkin' about the money and the bank account and stuff, but . . . this is really real."

Now she's just nodding, with her eyes wide and eyebrows raised, and the look all but says, _Of course it's real, moron, what did you think?_

"Can you, like . . . feel it . . . move around and stuff?"

Now she smiles and stops looking at him like he's some big, dumb idiot, which he is, granted. "Yeah. For the past few weeks or so. I wasn't sure at first, but, yeah."

So it's real, and for a few weeks after the baby clothes incident he's kind of a nervous nelly always double checking that things are OK, and "I know we don't got insurance, but ain't you supposed to see a doctor?" _I see a doctor every day, James. _She points to herself. And then there's the "What if I can't be a good dad" fear and she's halfway patient with him and halfway exasperated. "I wouldn't be doing tihs if I didn't think you'd be a good dad, OK?" in a tone of voice that sounds like that's supposed to be The Last Word. So, OK, that's that. Or at least he's not going to worry too much about it.

His nervous nelly stage just about runs its course until late October when he has to go out on the road to pick up his Series winnings, and he's just so not sure about this, and _everything will be fine_, and _we need the money_ and _stop worrying so much_ and just _go! Go and leave me alone, already! _These are the same little spats they keep having until he can practically repeat them verbatim. It ain't like they have cell phones, though, and he doesn't know where he's gonna be staying, and what if she needs the Nova in the middle of the night, and what if. . . _everything will be fine, please go._

The trip is nerve wracking enough, just being gone, just hiccupping through the upper Midwest in that damn Nova, but once he starts picking up the cash, first in Detroit, then in Cleveland, and on to Buffalo. Well, carrying a bag of cash around ain't no joke. He supposes, for him, once upon a time, it was, but not now. Jesus, they need this money. They'll buy a new car after the Super Bowl, but there's other shit they need to buy with this money, and then they can start investing. So, yeah, the bag of cash is like a big huge anvil to lug around.

He makes it home, dutifully announcing, "Sweetheart, I'm home," kind of with heart hammering in his chest, because they haven't talked for close to a week (no answering machines, goddammit), and you just never know. . .

"Back here," which means the bedroom, even though all you got to do from the front door is just crane your neck just so to peek into there. She's in bed, all sorts of paperwork and books and whatnot. She's actually trying to train herself to be an honest-to-God CPA, even if she can't ever actually get a license or probably work anywhere other than the diner. She thinks it'll be useful once they're rolling in the dough, and she's probably right about that.

She smiles real big up at him. "Show me the money!"

He's holding the suitcase full of cash, and for a second, visions of every briefcase con he ever ran flash through his brain. Except none of those women were six months pregnant and three quarters of the way through (he peers at the book she's just closed), _Financial Accounting: An Introduction to Concepts, Methods and Uses. _Boy, what kinda lame con was the briefcase con? Jesus, when the money is real, when it means something, you ain't gonna leave that case unsnapped. No sir. No, this one here is shut up real tight with a combo lock and two tight snaps. He places it on the bed, pops it open. There it is: $21,000 in cash. Maybe they should just go ahead and replace the Nova (no, no that's what the Super Bowl money is gonna be for).

She just stares at it, wide eyed, then her eyes seek his out. "We're really going to do this," she practically whispers. Do what? He wonders.

"We're going to make this work," she's still whispering, but her voice is beginning to rise, on a crescendo. "This is going to work. I can't believe it. We're going to do this!," practically squealing now.

"What?"

"Live here. Now. This is going to work. I can't believe it," in a whisper again.

* * *

Damn straight it's gonna work. They've made it to Christmas, and just waiting on the diner's Christmas party. The last customers have gone, Juliet's just about wrapped things up with Marjorie (this is Juliet's last day until March). She gives him a look that tells him all he needs to know about Marjorie's ability to keep the books for 12 weeks. How these people ran a business for 15 years he'll never guess.

Secret Santa gifts are exchanged. Darlene gives James a long, inappropriate hug and squeals with delight over her Red Wings calendar. She's holding on tight, wiggling and jiggling just so in his arms, and Juliet's looking at him with one eyebrow raised, and she'll probably have some smart remark about this tonight. Someone's got Elvis Christmas playing on the diner's tinny sound system. Juliet is wearing her gift from Betsy - a Santa Hat with a green eyeshade. Darlene lets go, people are singing, and this is Christmas. It only took about a year, but this is Christmas.

He's on a kind of Joy to the World high when Juliet approaches, teeth clenched. "James," it comes out kinda angry, and he wonders if somehow he crossed a line with Darlene, because it's totally supposed to be a joke, and she knows that, they joke about it all the time, so what's the deal? He's getting ready to apologize, just because maybe he should.

She grits her teeth. "We need to go. Please. Let's not make a big deal."

"If this is about Darlene. . ."

She starts to laugh, stops, grits her teeth again. "Not Darlene. The baby."

"What?" loud, alarmed.

"Calm down. It's going to be OK, I just don't want all of them following us. You know they will. Just act calm, it'll be OK."

ACT CALM? WHAT THE FUCK IS SHE TALKING ABOUT? ACT CALM. YEAH, OK. But if she can, he can, so they say their goodbyes. Lame excuses for leaving early. He does the talking, because every so often she makes this, "ggggggggggggggg" sound under her breath. And off they go.

Come on Nova, don't fail us now. Thank you, God, it doesn't.

It really is OK. He doesn't really freak out much at all. There's that one time, when she's got sweat pouring off her face, and says through gritted teeth, "At least we'll get to claim a deduction on this year's taxes." That kind of freaks him out some, because well, "We don't file taxes, baby," he whispers in her ear. And Jesus, how much pain is she in? She's so meticulous about all this, about them not getting caught, about taxes, about...

Hey come on now, can't you just give her something to make the pain go away?

And then he's here. Alex is here. He's been here a few hours, and James really needs to get his ass down to the office where they file the birth certificates, the one they showed them on the hospital tour. It's just . . . well, Alex is off in the nursery, and the doctor is supposed to come back and give them a report. Juliet assures him everything is fine, they just do this when the baby comes early, but Alex wasn't too early, and had good color and good weight and good Apgar scores. And what's that, he doesn't even know, but he wants to be here when the doctor comes, ok? He wants to hear what he has to say and the birth certificate can wait.

It happens again once he has the birth certificate in hand. The plan is for him to go mail it off to the Social Security Administration first chance. But the Post Office has been closed for Christmas anyway, and now that it is open, Juliet's sleeping, and James is just holding Alex, and you wouldn't believe how tiny his fingernails are. And his hands, he's got one curled around James's pinky finger, and the Post Office is open until 5, so that can wait.

Sure enough, four to six weeks later (OK, six weeks, and they were starting to sweat it a little bit), here is Alexander Ford LaFleur's Social Security card and those 9 numbers and two dashes that open a world of opportunity. James has the bank ready to go – it's what he spent last summer doing, but it's just . . . Alex has been smiling a whole lot all of a sudden, and it's possible, any day now, he's sure, he's gonna laugh. James can't miss it. Just can't. During one of Alex's naps, the family CPA shoos James out the door and off to the bank.

Just like that, it's done. The bank account. This was the whole purpose, right? It's a huge fucking relief, is what it is. They've got it. They've done it. But the bigger relief is getting home and finding out he didn't miss Alex's first laugh, and well, god damn, the bank account wasn't the whole purpose at all was it?

* * *

Oliver arrives in late 1980, and he wasn't meant to be a bank account. He wasn't really meant to be anything at all actually. He's just what happens when everybody gets a little too happy celebrating the hockey win over the Soviets, and all that money James made betting that the US was gonna win the gold. But, Juliet says they do need to "diversify their assets" so they use Oliver Carlson LaFleur's SSN to open another account.

They'll spend the rest of their lives going the speed limit, backing out of any situation that may involve the police. Juliet never gets a CPA license, James never gets a real job. They live in fear that something will go wrong, and especially that their kids will be taken from them.

But this is life as a time traveler.

* * *

**The whole point of this entirely too long chapter was to provide a happy ending, so, that's the happy ending.**

**Happy New Year!**


	4. Chapter 4

**December 23, 2035**

Juliet tosses and turns. She's getting used to sleeping alone – sort of. Kind of likes it, actually. She looks at the clock. Just past 11. Hell. She's got to be up at dawn to get her cousin from the airport, and she's here in "The Big House," as they call it, in a guest bedroom, and she's not quite sure about the alarm clock: AM/PM button, radio volume, you name it. She'd hate to be late picking up Jake, but, well, he's a grown-up (or practically is), so he can handle it.

She tosses and turns a bit more. Why did she volunteer to pick up Jake? Because that's "just Juliet," the "Good One." She starts thinking of Aunt Jen's pumpkin pie. Hmmm. A slice of that might help.

She slips an old college sweatshirt on over her pjs and pads down the back staircase into the massive kitchen. She's surprised to see a glowing circle of light over the center island. Dad and Uncle Oliver with stacks of paper. Dad has his reading glasses on the end of his nose, and his face is all wrinkled up and squinty like it gets when he's frustrated. Uncle Oliver is running his hands through his hair, or, well, over his head, through what (very little) hair he has left.

They sense her presence in the kitchen. "Hey, sweetie," Dad looks up at her, blows out air. "Everything OK?"

"Couldn't sleep," Juliet answers. "What're you guys up to?" She heads toward the fridge, taking out Aunt Jen's pie.

"Did Nana ever tell you anything about, I don't know . . . a secret account or something?" says Uncle Oliver.

Juliet sets down the pie and walks over to the island.

Dad hands her a sheet of paper. "That's a list of accounts. Mine and Oliver's. You three girls. Jake's and Susan's. Even the twins." Juliet peers down, sees it all neatly typed out. Dad's name, social, account info, Uncle Oliver's, hers, her sisters', her cousins', even her infant nieces'. "But we've gone through all of this," he gestures at the stacks of papers all around them, "and I don't see anything for your Nana and Granddad. Did she ever say anything to you?"

Juliet always was close to Nana. Maybe a self-fulfilling prophecy being named after her and all. Nana always claimed she reminded her of herself. Juliet never saw it, but was always happy to play along.

Nana was an accountant; Juliet's a doctor.

Nana was married to Granddad for more than 50 years; Juliet's marriage lasted about three years, or will once the divorce is final.

Granddad was a big, handsome, fun loving guy; William (Juliet's soon-to-be ex) was (God, how did she miss it at the time?) just a little dweeb. God, she'd been so blinded by . . . by what exactly? Stem cell research? What a joke.

She brought him home for Thanksgiving one year. How did she not see it? He hit on Ella's roommate right there in front of her. Right in front of her family. She let that simmer for a little bit and when she had the temerity to say something, just under her breath . . . he said, "Oh grow up, Juliet. Stop being so stupid." Said it right there, right in front of her mother and grandparents, then stalked out of the room.

Well, Mom, bless her heart, was just so happy that Juliet finally found someone, finally had a life outside the classroom, that she made some excuse about how stressful it can be to meet the family and blah blah blah. Granddad just kind of growled and muttered curse words under his breath, and that's just the way Granddad was. Nana, on the other hand, just stood there, stock still, looking incredibly angry.

Twenty minutes later, William walked back in, and Nana up and says, "You will not speak to my granddaughter like that under my roof. Ever again." William kind of gulped and agreed and stammered an apology.

On the flight back home he said, "Your grandma's kind of a mega-bitch."

And Juliet should've known. Geez. How is it Nana ever thought they were alike? She could just stand right up to stupid William, and it had taken Juliet nearly six years of sleeping with the guy, nearly three married to him to make any kind of stand.

She didn't care if Nana was so misguided, she loved the closeness anyway. After Granddad died, Juliet had lunch with Nana every chance she got. This summer, when Nana was so sick . . . when she was dying (Juliet's heart lurches a bit). . . Juliet took a leave of absence from her practice to be with her.

She actually chuckles now, thinking of it. She was on the fence about William. Maybe if they had kids . . . Nana rolled her eyes. Ha. Nana was dying and still she had the gumption to push Juliet right over the line, serve that bastard with papers.

Juliet remembers asking, "Did you know right away?"

"Know what, dear?"

"The first time you met Granddad. Did you know right away that he was The One?"

Nana snorted a laugh, started a coughing fit, but she kept on laughing until she finally wheezed out. "Not even remotely."

"Hello?" Dad snaps Juliet from her reverie. Juliet thinks on other things she and Nana talked about right before. . .well, right before . . . Right before she died she was really in and out of it a lot. A lot of stuff that didn't make any sense. But maybe . . .

"She mentioned an island a bunch of times. Like, maybe an offshore account, do you think?"

Dad and Uncle Oliver nod, purse their lips, make little hemmmmm sounds.

"Like the Caymans? Isn't that a tax haven?" Dad asks.

"Shit, Al. If Mom hid this money somewhere, no way in hell we're ever gonna find it." Nana was kind of a whiz with money.

"Do you really need to find it?" Juliet asks. I mean, really. How much money does anyone need? Besides they've all got their accounts, their pots of money.

They hear gravel crunch on the driveway and a car door open and slam.

"Thanks guys!" It's Juliet's cousin, Susan, rushing in. She's a senior in high school, and her curfew is midnight. Sure enough, the clock strikes twelve.

"Hey, happy birthday, Dad," Juliet says, realizes what today is. He grumbles. Apparently having a birthday so close to Christmas kind of sucks.

Susan's in now, smelling very minty. Mint doesn't hide the smell of smoke in her hair, and doesn't quite cover the alcohol on her breath. Susan's kind of the wild one, but she's a hell of a lot of fun.

She was out doing karaoke, and starts belting out "No New Year's Day . . . to celebrate."

"Stevie Wonder!" Uncle Oliver shouts. Juliet supposes he either doesn't know or care about whatever else Susan was up to.

Susan launches into another one, "Our D.I.V.O.R.C.E becomes final today . . ."

"Ha ha, very funny," Juliet swats at her.

Dad's playing along now, too. "Tammy Wynette."

"Uncle Alex for 5 points!" Susan's kind of loud. "When you're alone and life is making you lonely . . ."

"Petula Clark!" That's from the doorway. Here's Aunt Jen.

Do they know that was Nana's favorite song? Juliet wonders. Aunt Jen is clucking about Susan, starts slicing pie for all of them, teasing Uncle Oliver about his weight. Now here comes Ella, fussing about the noise, worried the babies will wake up.

Do they know this was Nana's favorite time of year? Juliet wonders. Uncle Oliver's got some ridiculous over-the-top Christmas sweater, Dad is now singing some Christmas song with Susan, Aunt Jen is handing out pie, and even Ella relents a little and dips her finger in the whipped cream.

_Merry Christmas, Nana, hope you can see us,_ thinks Juliet. _Say Hi to Granddad._


End file.
